Date With The Night
by M.R. Potter
Summary: When you've got everything, like Blaise does, what more could you possibly want? Sometimes it takes a little perspective to make you understand that you can't have everything and not lose anything at all.
1. Prologue

A/N: Here it is, Blaise's story. Many, many thanks to my new beta Desi who helped improve this story by miles. Enjoy everyone!

Disclaimer: Not mine, not Desi's. Never been, never will.

The most he could have hoped for was a goodbye before he left, but no. Blaise woke up most mornings with an empty spot next to him. He was lucky if he could wake up to find his latest escapade quietly scuttling out the door of his dormitory, with his robes swathed in his small, pale arms and a look on his face that he didn't recall ever seeing the night before. Then, it would just be a nod apiece before the door would close and Blaise would roll over to try and catch a few more minutes of sleep.

But on some occasions, like that somber rainy night, where he was seated on the window seat watching rain smack against the windows with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, he wondered if there was anything more than what he had in the mornings. He wondered if there was such thing as being able to greet your partner 'Good morning' instead of 'Make sure you lock the door behind you'. He wondered why that dull, aching throbbing in his chest always made itself known whenever he saw Draco and Harry walk around with each other's crumpled ties jutting out of their pockets. But most of all, he wondered why it had never occurred to him to want what they had.

_It's almost driving me crazy, watching them both look at each other over the tops of their books during breakfast, or worse, Potions, when I'm pretty sure one is wanking the other off underneath the table. It bothers me that I'm bothered. _

_You like the way things are, remember? You needn't commit to one single person and you don't have to feel anything when you find you can't even remember _anyone's_ name from the night before. You like it when you don't feel remorse when you walk into a room and realize that you have slept with at least three or four of the people occupying it, most of them with serious, stable relationships of their own. You hear whispers of your prowess in bed when you walk by; you're famous in that aspect! It's all a guy like_ you_ could ever want, so why would you want anything more?_

It's what he usually always told himself on nights such as these. He was pretty sure it wasn't his conscience talking because he had concluded such a long time ago that he wasn't born with one. No, the voice in his head must have been self-preservation. It had stopped him from doing blindly hopping into one thing or another or anything stupid, like actually getting around to genuine commitment.

Well, if he did (may heaven strike me with the clap, he often said), he wouldn't have a single problem standing in his way. He was a walking God among mortals, with a hell of a lot more than arrogant loftiness to add to the whole effect. He had rich, smooth, dark skin stretched taut over well-formed muscles most- no, all-athletes of his age would envy. His face was exotic and beautifully formed, with vividly green catlike eyes that darkened to a breathtaking sultry emerald whenever he saw something he particularly wanted. His nose was elegantly arched, and his mouth sported a mischievous yet sexy grin that sent people (both male and female) shaking at the knees and struggling to stand up straight, or in some cases, at all. No, you couldn't say anyone had turned him away because of his looks. His skills in bed were nearing legendary, so he didn't have to worry about that, either.

He took another drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl out through partly opened lips. It was against the rules to smoke in the dormitories, but since he had shagged both prefects on several satisfying occasions, he could get away with nearly anything. It didn't matter. Nobody was going to stop him, and nobody ever would. Not when it came to the things he wanted.


	2. Smokes

A/N: Here it is, Blaise's story. One of the things I have picked up about writing such strong characters is that it's hard to do better than yourself once you have developed an almost smug feeling of accomplishment about writing a character like Blaise. Likewise, it's difficult to plot out a story for him with such a fickle imagination. This first one came in a bolt of lightning, under an umbrella with a soaked-through History book. Enjoy!

And of course, many thanks to my beta Desi. Without her, this would have probably been an extremely crap chapter and not worth your time. So thanks love, you made this one great!

Disclaimer: Not me. Not ever.

-----

_I desperately need a shag_, Blaise Zabini sighed to himself, smudging a slight dusting of pollen off of the sap-stained tabletop with an elegantly poised finger. The morning's Herbology lesson was boring him out of his mind, even if the dark-haired Ravenclaw he remembered having a quickie with from about a month and a half ago was seated next to him. Normally, he would have avoided the least bit of contact with someone he'd had a quickie with, but since he had gotten to class late that morning, he had no other choice. What could he say? He believed in being fashionably late. That way, you always ensured yourself of a grand entrance because nobody else was around to share the spotlight.

His caffeine-fueled high was starting to wear thin, though, and now he just wanted a cigarette. He tossed his head back to get a good look of the class, seeing that most of them were either busy scribbling notes or studying their Phorada Plants (great nasty things that looked like a cross between a cactus and poison ivy) as Professor Sprout discussed the exact, foolproof technique to extract its pod. His own seatmate was staring at the blackboard; quill hovering over his notebook in one hand and his face cradled in the other. No, nobody was going to really take a notice if he just stood up and left this dull class. So, he stood silently and used the class's back entrance. There was no need for fanfare at the moment, Blaise had decided, when nicotine was in question.

It wasn't long before Blaise was puffing on his own rolled smoke, like a man deprived. It calmed his jumping nerves some, but it sorely reminded him that he hadn't gotten any in what seemed like a long,_l__ong_ time. Or to be absolutely specific about it, he had gone about two months without sex. By his standards, it seemed like an obscene eternity. Draco would have laughed his ass off if he knew, he darkly thought to himself as he took a hearty puff. Even when they were together, they had never gone more than a week without.

He was starting to consider the implications of this all-time low when the rustle of leaves caught his attention. He quickly glanced up, and to his surprise, he saw the Ravenclaw he had been sitting next to not too long ago in that boring classroom standing in front of him with a purple and black Phorada Pod in his nervously twitching hand. Didn't his name start with 'T'? A loop of names rolled through Blaise's head. _Thomas, Theodore…_

"D'you want to help me with this inside?" he said in a voice so quiet that Blaise struggled to catch all that the boy had said. Blaise didn't answer right away, since he was busy looking him up and down with half-lidded eyes. He wasn't as tall as he was, or as filled out for that matter, but he looked decent enough. He had a ruddy complexion, ebony black hair that he tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck and piercing blue eyes that even Blaise had a hard time looking at for more than a minute.

"I'd rather see it rolled up and smoked, thanks. You seemed to have done alright in there without me," he shrugged. More names beginning with the afore-mentioned letter flashed in his Mind's Eye: _Terence, Tom…_

What he didn't catch right away was how the boy held his arm behind his back. It unconsciously fell to his side, revealing a long red gash from his wrist up to his elbow. He seemed to visibly shrink before Blaise's eyes.

"I…I could really use the help," he softly said, more pleading now. It would have annoyed Blaise to even open his mouth to answer this guy, so he just reached out and stubbed what was left of his smoldering cigarette out on the pod. It shuddered violently in the Ravenclaw's palm before shriveling up and deflating like a popped football. Blaise leaned back and waited for a fist or something to fly, but to his amazement, all he did was bow his head down to look at the dead pod in his grasp, and slowly lift his head to look up at him.

"You could have just said no, you know," he murmured, no traces of anger present in his voice, but hurt disappointment apparent on his face. He turned and walked away, towards the greenhouse. _Got it, his name's Terry. Terry Boot. _

Strange enough, but Blaise actually felt _guilt_ hardening his stomach as he watched the dejected Terry walking back to the greenhouse, the back of his shirt stained crimson from the wound on his arm.

-----

"You did _what_?"

Blaise didn't look at Draco straightaway, buying time by chewing the food in his mouth at a snail's pace.

"I put out my cigarette on the Pod," he repeated once the food had gone down his throat. He wasn't expecting any more than a reprimand from the blonde sitting next to him, but what happened next completely threw him off guard.

"Of all people you could have done that to, why Terry Boot? I mean, even I wouldn't have done that to him, you git!" Draco inhaled before going on,

"It's like sitting on a Puffskein on purpose. Why'd you do it?" he asked. A little furrow formed between Blaise's eyebrows and he rested an elbow on the table.

And there it was. Personally, he didn't know how to go on about explaining this morning. Even when he was at his most vindictive, he would never have picked on someone as pathetic as Terry. He could blame his cigarettes, but that would almost be like blaming his best friend, so he vanished that excuse out of his mind.

"I don't know. It just happened, I guess," was all he could offer. Draco made a derisive puffing sound from between his lips.

"When I say you've reached rock bottom, I'm saying you could fucking dig diamonds from under your feet," he said.

"And how do you propose I crawl out of this one? I haven't been able to get anyone laid in the past month, especially after Boot over there! I hate to admit this, but I think… I think I'm beginning to lose my charm," Blaise sighed, finally putting his fork on his plate. Draco didn't quite get the chance to answer because Harry suddenly came by, his rucksack slung over his shoulder.

"Hey," he said, figuratively demolishing the conversation.

Almost instantly, Draco's expression softened, like the conversation they just had didn't occur and nothing was wrong. And just as quickly, Blaise's stomach started to coil up into a knot, which was his usual response when he saw them together.

"I've got to go Blaise, things to do. Good luck with your thing though," Draco quickly said, standing up and leaving Blaise behind with his unfinished lunch.

"So much for thanks," he mumbled to himself.

-----

It was late afternoon when Blaise found himself walking down to the Potions dungeon for class. Lunchtime's conversation with Draco still stuck around in his mind, and his feet automatically walked him to the dungeons, using the shortcut that passed by the Hospital Wing's other office. He was absentmindedly twiddling with his Slytherin-custom green and silver tie when the door creaked open and someone from inside came walking out. He could make out Madam Pomfrey's motherly voice chiding,

"The next time you decide to work with a Phorada Plant by yourself, Mister Boot, do yourself a favor and consider getting yourself a partner to help."

"Thanks Madam Pomfrey, that I'll do," came Terry's calm response. His arm was heavily bandaged and scented with something smelling strongly of eucalyptus. He closed the door and turned to face Blaise, who was still holding on to his tie as he paused mid-stride to look at Terry.

In the silence that followed, neither one of the boys didn't quite know what to say to fill the awkward quietness. There they were, in the middle of a dark, otherwise abandoned corridor staring at each other. Blaise unconsciously found himself looking at Terry's brilliant blue eyes and searching for just a hint of resentment. Disturbingly enough, he found none. And why did it matter?

"You could remember that you have to be somewhere else to be right now," Blaise snapped. Terry nodded and just neutrally stared back at him.

"As do you," he softly answered before walking away.

The sound of a bell echoed through the corridor; but Blaise didn't take much heed, at least not right away. Nobody ever defied _him_! Terry's audacity should have repulsed Blaise, but it didn't. Not even when he was already bandaged and bleeding did he even try.

It was in watching Terry walk away that he decided that he would break his own rule and have something to do with the elusive Terry Boot.


	3. Nargles?

A/N: Next chapter! Here, we see a little bit more of the enigma that is Terry Boot. The good thing about having a character like him is that nobody can say he's being OOC because well, nobody knows a thing about him! Thanks to Desi for the patience and her beta-ing…she's been fabulous. 

Disclaimer: Not me, not Desi. Not ever.

* * *

The sunset outside tossed brilliant, ruddy patches of light into the Great Hall. The last bell had rung, and now the students of Hogwarts were beginning to spill forth into the wide area. The familiar buzz of chitchat, of students meeting up with friends and anticipating dinner filled the once-silent hallways. Terry had just come in from Charms, hair standing on end. What was supposed to be an exercise for making a pair of scissors rumba across the table somehow made his hair bright green and take on a static quality. Professor Flitwick had said he was distracted. Terry himself preferred the excuse of his wounded arm.

And speaking of his wand arm, the stupid incision was starting to bleed through his bandages again. Crap. It was _second_ time today he'd had to change the wraps. The ones that Madam Pomfrey had given him were running out, which meant that he would most likely have to make a stop by the Infirmary tomorrow morning. Hopefully, he wouldn't have the _pleasure_ of crashing into Blaise again. The encounter had left his mind spinning in concentric circles long after Blaise had prowled away to his Potions class.

In retrospect, he started to wonder if Flitwick was right about him being distracted.

The bleeding was getting worse, Terry vaguely noticed, so he pulled himself up to a table and started unwrapping the bandages gingerly. The wound was clean, but blood had started to congeal around it again. He let out a gusty, dismayed sigh and began the slightly painful process of removing the remainder of the cloth bandage from the wound. He hated how it all tended to stick together. How could a Herbology lesson have gone so wrong?

He missed the telltale sounds of a person's approach because she was wearing only striped stockings, but soon a pale little girl sidled up to him with an assortment of knickknacks and protective amulets strung around her thin neck.

"You know, I have something that I think will help you," she breathed, twirling once so her light blond hair flew out around her. Terry just looked at her with a questioning eye, his mouth set into an indefinite frown. She shifted her shoulder bag a little, and started pulling out a variety of unusual objects. Some of them were a little oddly shaped and multicolored, while others looked like they could bite a troll's head off if they so wanted to.

Finally, she unearthed something wrapped in a worn brown cloth, which she unwrapped and revealed. He almost snorted; it was a miniscule, shriveled-up root that resembled a petrified banana. She had a way of moving that prohibited verbal reaction; out of nowhere she produced a knife with a genuine bone handle. And Terry hadn't even begun to remark about the root!

"What are you up to?" he feebly asked, now that she had begun to slice up the root. Her movements were slightly awkward, because of the root's woody, fibrous texture. She didn't answer, but her brow furrowed to show that she heard his question.

"This is going to be wonderful for what you have on your arm. How did you get it by the way?" she asked, never taking her eyes away from the strenuous-looking work she was doing. The knife hacked away at the poor, stringy root, and Terry wondered if the blade was well built enough to go through with such a rough cutting job.

He sighed. "In Herbology. A Phorada Plant and an uncooperative partner."

"I think I can help you with that. I've got spare Nargles up in my dormitory, you know, if you need them," she serenely offered, still going at the root with fervor. "How uncooperative was he?"

Had she known? She dimly reminded Terry of Hogwarts' Divination teacher, but then again, most—he himself included—felt that Trelawney was more psy_cho_ than psy_chic_. "Well, kind of like the plant you're trying to cut up. Look, it's okay. I'm pretty sure that I can get medicine from Madam Pomfrey tonight," he says, shifting the bloody bandages away from him.

She didn't answer again, but she says something out loud, more to herself than to him. "Well, I find that changing the grip on the knife," she started, holding the knife between her thumb and her forefinger only, "Does better than exerting more strength." And she's right; the knife goes through the root like a heated knife passing through butter. Both halves fall apart to reveal a gooey blue center, which she scooped out and started to smear onto Terry's wound.

Any notion of jerking away was instantly erased once Terry felt the effect of the plant's center on his lesion. It wasn't stinging as much anymore, and it actually felt soothing. "This Blandrino root is well-known for its healing abilities, as well as its difficulty to use. But once you work past its defying outside, you'll find that the gold inside is well-worth the hassle."

For a while, he could almost make out a connection between the root and Blaise, but that was quickly dispersed when she took his bloody bandages away and said, "You should be fine now. Rinse it off in the morning and it will be fully healed," she said. Terry nodded in response and thanked her. "Thanks a lot. But if I may be curious, who are you?"

"Luna, Luna Lovegood. And you're very welcome. Anytime you need those Nargles, I'll be up in Gryffindor Tower," she said, standing up and stuffing things back into her bag.

"Thanks Luna, I'll remember that. I'm Terry, by the way," he says, while standing up.

"I know who you are. I usually see you drawing or painting under a tree by the Lake,"

He blinked incredulously at her. "How do you know that?"

She closed her bag and rearranged her carrot necklace before looking up at him with serene blue eyes. "I'm usually up in that tree looking for Poppyfeenk seeds. It's nice to finally see your face instead of just the top of your head," she joked lightly, smiling.

As she walked away from him, Terry couldn't decide whether to laugh at her quirky tendencies, or to be awed at how oblivious she was behaving about being so… abnormal. But nonetheless, it was kind of nice to find a kindred soul among a thousand who thought you were kind of strange.

* * *

Well, to say that a thousand thought he was kind of strange was a little understated. Even in his own house of Ravenclaw, he was regularly met with a criticizing eye or a hushed whisper combined with horribly hidden fingers pointing in his general direction.

You'd think he'd get used to it after almost six years of attending Hogwarts, but the whispers still managed to get to him. At first, he didn't quite understand what attracted this sort of attention to him, but in the years that followed he learned that it was prudent to just keep walking and try not to attract any more unnecessary interest. As hoped, it didn't bother him as much anymore, but with it came the understanding as to _why_it happened.

Ravenclaw House was the academic center of Hogwarts. It was where the Gryffindors were brave and the Slytherins were slippery; the Ravenclaws happened to be the bookish ones. School, to them, was always about being number one when it came to smarts and besting everyone else in the class. Terry, however, was the dire exception. He was an artist; he stuck to his watercolors, oils, and such, whereas a generic Ravenclaw's best friend was a book or a writing quill. But he wasn't a poor student; at least not by the generalized standards. It was just that his being more inclined to draw sort of gave his housemates reason to pick on him. In fact, he got _great_ grades compared to a lot of the foolhardy Slytherin slums—it was just because of his little artistic quirk that his housemates, his supposed-to-be 'friends', picked on him!

One thing he had never told anyone was that he was gay, and he didn't expect to go blabbing about it anytime in the near future. That was_the_ most important thing he had to keep out of the public, or else the vultures would just swoop in for the kill. The admittance would cause rumors, and Terry, like any normal human being, hated rumors that were against him.

For the most part, he was actually quite thankful that Blaise had not told anyone about that tryst in the bathroom, but he wasn't sure anymore about how long it would remain under wraps. And if he knew anything about Blaise Zabini, it was that he was as unpredictable as the enchanted sky in the Great Hall.

He had finished getting ready for bed on autopilot, slipping into his pajamas without really taking a noticing to it, and now he was slipping between the covers. The candle on his bedside table fluttered out by itself, as if snuffed out by an invisible pair of lips. He was plunged into darkness that ran as deep as his thoughts. The day's events replayed themselves through his mind over and over again in an impossible-to-stop loop: running into Blaise in the corridor, meeting Luna and walking away with an arm on the mend. It was nothing greatly unusual, so why did those memories nip at him so much?

It was probably because of the nagging feeling that these events were somehow bound together in an intricate weave, either in the future or in the current and conceivable present.


	4. A Chat

A/N: Another chapter! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not me, not Desi. Not ever. (Sadly!)

On a much lower, not to mention incredibly _chillier_ level of the school, somebody else was quite the opposite of the peacefully slumbering Terry. Blaise Zabini was still up in the Slytherin Common room. The soft ruby velvet of the couch could've been almost soothing if he wasn't so worked up, he thought to himself. The room was blessedly deserted, the only significant sound being the odd crackle-and-pop of the fire eating up the logs. Blaise was content with his swirling thoughts, but unnaturally so, since it was on occasions like these that he normally had a cigarette smoldering in his hand. And such was the effect of his thoughts on him.

And just like Terry, he was replaying the day in his head. He didn't intend to run into Terry on the way to Potions, but he wasn't dreading it either. He just didn't like to be caught unawares and surprised when he could be suave and collected himself. But, truth be told, he was a tad more pleased than irritated about having run into him in the corridor. He was getting curious about how Terry would react to seeing him again. Blaise could almost mistake him for pathetic actually, with his arm wrapped in bandages and such, were it not for the repartee he had launched right back and the manner he had said it in. His voice was quiet and calm, but it was the very thing that amplified it to nearly ridiculous heights. Blaise found himself caring too much about it than he would have preferred.

A particularly loud spit from the burning fire popped broke his steady line of thought, and shuffling footsteps followed it. Blaise didn't need to turn around anymore; he could recognize those steps blindfolded.

"I actually forgot what it was like to come back to the Common Room and have you waiting for me," Draco Malfoy drawled from behind. Blaise heard the familiar sounds of him shedding his robes, kicking off his shoes and settling into his favorite chair adjacent the couch.

Draco had his shirt halfway buttoned, and his necktie was completely devoid of its knot. In fact, it wasn't even close to being tied; it was hanging haphazardly around his neck. "To think you would have known better than to come in looking so barbarically disheveled. Haven't I taught you anything at all?" Blaise bit out, quite irritated, but irrationally so.

Draco didn't answer him; he merely parried Blaise's gaze with serene stare. It didn't take that long for him to notice, but for the first time since Draco came in, Blaise saw the happily glazed look on his face, as if it were painted in bold red paint on his comrade's pale features. "Oh dear god. That flush is completely post-coital, but that, my friend, is the face of a completely besotted fool," Blaise groaned, as if the very thought were bitter to taste.

"You only have yourself to thank. Or blame. You can choose," Draco shrugged with the nonchalance of a less irked Blaise.

"What am I missing here? You obviously seem happy with Potter," Blaise ventured hesitantly. The thought seemed incredibly taboo to him. Who could be pleasantly occupied with only _one_ person?

"Are my ears deceiving me? Blaise Zabini finally wants to know what an actual _relationship_ is?" Draco asked with a mocking smirk.

"Did I say that? No! All I asked you was what I'm missing! The very thought of just having _one_ person to shack up with…ugh!" Blaise visibly shuddered.

Draco sighed, but his dreamy smile never faltered. "You can be such a bitch when you haven't gotten any. When was your last?"

"Quickies included?"

Draco shook his head once in disapproval. "Nope."

Blaise almost stuttered in his attempt of a response. "The last time _we_ went at it."

Draco exploded in a blend of a laugh, snort and cough. "That long? It's amazing you haven't shriveled up and withered away to _dust_ by now!" he exclaimed.

Blaise narrowed his eyes in obvious humiliation. "There _was _Terry Boot in between though, as you may recall."

But Draco couldn't be bothered to stop cackling. "The world is going to end soon; the great Blaise Zabini hasn't had a fuck in more than two months!" he hooted.

Blaise looked like he was sitting on a pincushion, needles digging into the sensitive skin on his arse. "I'd like to refer to it as a dry spell, thank you very much."

"No way, in your world, this would be considered a fucking drought!"

"You can stop sounding so happy about it now," Blaise muttered, settling deeper into the couch. Trust Draco to be so sensitive about things like these.

Draco was still wiping tears from his eyes when he straightened up to speak. "Okay, okay. All right, I think I'm done. Oh…" He sighed, wrapping his arms around his aching abdomen. "How do we figure this out?" he asked, addressing Blaise.

"Fuck it, I don't know. It's like I don't feel like it much these days, or I just can't be arsed to," he said.

Draco appeared to be contemplative rather than highly amused, which was a great relief to Blaise, who didn't know how much prodding and shrinking his ego could take. "You mentioned Terry Boot, right?"

"Yeah, I did." Blaise said shortly. His fingers itched to cradle a cigarette at that moment.

"Was he any good?"

"Hesitant at first, but I'm sure it's something we could have fixed in the long run," Blaise reported emotionlessly, fidgeting with a stray thread poking out from the couch.

Draco looked thoughtful. "Maybe you could work on that long run with him. Apparently, no one else seems to be working for you. The way I see it, Terry would be good for you in your time of absolute need." 

"Now what makes you think that I would stoop down to _that_ level of low? He was a charity case, and even _you_ would know that," Blaise answered, indignant at the very suggestion.

"You have no other choice mate, the way I see it. And it can't be all that bad. I hear that art box of his can get pretty interesting. Does wonders for your creative juices," Draco winked chastely as some form of encouragement.

Blaise was quiet for a while. "But how do you suggest I get him to lie still long enough?"

"Opportune moments, that's all I'm saying. If you're smart, you'll find them just prancing in front of you, up for the taking. It's up to you do what you want about them."

"God, you can be so hot when you're being a smart ass."

"You're getting deprived, my poor, poor friend. Just about _anything_ will sound hot to your destitute ears."


	5. The Corridor

A/N: Summer is finally here! To everyone have been patiently waiting for the next chapter, here it is. School was absolutely crazy, and I've only just gotten back from a road trip with my girls. Enjoy! Huge thank you to my beta Desinere, for adding her own charm to the story and making it so much better.

* * *

Blaise never liked rainy days. You'd think that for such a decadent creature like him, he would relish the darkness. But no, he didn't like the dreary feeling that accompanied such grey days. Like a dark sense of foreboding, the weather outside engulfed him in antsy expectation, like something unpleasant was going to happen.

Last night's conversation with Draco had him thinking. If he was anywhere near as desperate as Draco said he was, then he was in even worse trouble than he had originally thought.

Granted, he had seen better days among much more willing partners. But when you've more or less gotten into everyone's pants, the charm of it all just seems to wear off. Fresh meat was definitely in order at the moment, but sadly, he hadn't a clue as to where to look.

He was on his way to Charms class, which was somewhere on the third floor. He didn't take the usual passage on the way, making use of a little shortcut that went behind the general flow. His thoughts occupied his mind, but he still caught a scuffle that echoed from the far end of the corridor.

Not many knew about this corridor, so it came as a surprise that he wasn't alone. He quickened his pace, hoping to catch a little of the action for himself. Voices grew louder as he flew down the corridor, and they didn't sound pleasant.

"Give it back!"

"Not if you don't ask properly,"

"D'you think he'd be able to reach it from up here?"

These weren't very friendly voices, he reckoned. Something was or was going to be wrong.

_But why does it matter to you?_

He crept up quietly behind a massive statue of an ancient old woman to watch. Three or four guys all dressed in telltale Slytherin garb were gathered around someone lying prone on the stone floor.

One of them had a backpack in his grasp, dangling it by its straps in the air. The other two were holding the unidentifiable student down.

Blaise's mind seemed to race at inhuman speeds. _Wait… __I've seen that paint stain before. _

"Give it back guys, please. I didn't do anything to you," he heard the voice on the floor plead.

A slice went through his gut when he recognized it as Terry's. He was a natural target for bullies, of course, but he had always assumed Terry knew how to counter them. There was vulnerability in his voice that he didn't imagine he'd hear. Vulnerability he didn't _want_ to hear.

"You may not have mate, but I don't like lookin' at your mug when I don't have to be!" the Slytherin holding his bag taunted.

"Fuckin' priss, why don't you fight back?" One of the ones holding him down pushed. Terry spluttered to answer, but he was just forced back down to the ground by the same person.

Violence was never a bullying point of Blaise's. He preferred psychological bullying by a mile. Not that he wouldn't indulge in a little violence in bed, but when it was outside of it, ah, now that was different. He would never condone that, especially after he had grown up with several abusive stepfathers. Never mind what they thought, he'd deal with it later.

"That isn't fair lads, three against one," he said, creeping out from behind the statue, with his wand raised. They all turned around to look at him, in all their well-built glory. Blaise would have faltered, but being older and quite a bit of a bully himself, he knew that they were in some way, afraid of him.

"Who are you?" the biggest one said, turning to face him.

"Someone you would be wise to avoid," was all he offered. He tauntingly flicked his wand between the three of them. "Now, I don't want this to get out of hand. I'm going to give you until five to clear off before I set something foul onto you. One…" he started.

One of the three let Terry go immediately and began to sprint off in the other direction, but the other two stopped him and turned towards Blaise. "We've never seen the likes of you before, so why should we give a shit?"

Blaise's eyes sparkled, a dark blazing emerald that held the beginnings of anger. "Because I know how to make it hell where YOU give a shit," he said, pointing his wand straight at them.

They started backing away from him, but one was still stupid enough to forego his fight-or-flight instincts. "You don't know who we are; we can report you."

"I've slept with every one of them. You really want to test that?"

That was the last straw, it seemed. They turned and ran away, like Fluffy himself was after their heels.

The corridor was still ringing with their retreating footsteps when Terry was attempting to stand up. Blaise didn't help him; he just looked on with unreadable eyes.

"Funny how you were nearby when that happened," Terry said, in a conversational tone. Blaise still didn't answer; he just stared some more.

Terry's nose was bleeding all over his chin, small streaks of rust beginning to crawl down to the underside of his jaw. The slice in his gut had quieted down to a dull throb now, and right now he didn't feel like dealing with it. He figured that he could always berate himself later on, in the privacy of his dorm room.

"Funny how you put yourself in the right light to get yourself beaten up," he said, as an answer.

"I didn't do it on purpose though," Terry sighed. He straightened out his clothes a little, and mopped up the blood from his face with his sleeve.

"Sure you didn't," Blaise said, as a taunt. Terry ignored it, not rising to the bait Blaise set out for him. Instead, he gave the Slytherin a half-smile.

"Nice to know though that you aren't completely without remorse. Thanks for helping back there," he said, extending his hand. Blaise didn't take it; he merely raised an elegant eyebrow and lowered his wand arm. His backpack shifted on his shoulder as he brushed past Terry.

He only glanced back over his shoulder. In an acidic, deadly voice, Blaise asked, "How do you know it's not because I wanted to bully you myself?"

The bell rang overhead. He was going to be late.

Life had its ways of presenting opportune moments, Blaise reasoned as he walked on to his class. As his steps echoed through the hallway, he was silently thankful to whatever deities existed that he had managed to step in at just the right time. Surely, spotting out opportune moments couldn't be this easy!


	6. Draco, Yet Again

This was supposed to be up over the summer, but I was too busy managing a complicated summer fling to further the plotline of this story. When that little chapter of my life ended, I had a hard time getting back in right groove to continue this story. This chapter has gone through several revisions, and I know it's short, but it certainly is better than what it was before.

* * *

It's great to be back though!

Disclaimer: Nope, not me. Not ever.

What kind of a cracked up line was that? He might as well have gotten it from Longbottom.

"Blaise! Hey, wait up! Blaise!"

Draco was walking towards him from the other side of the corridor with the two bullies in tow. "Tha's 'im, the one who did it!" one of them cried, pointing an accusing finger at Blaise. He barely flinched, even if they both looked like they wanted to knock the stuffing out of him. Draco looked at Blaise.

"Do I want to know?" he asked. Blaise looked at them from below his elegant nose. "Ask Terry Boot," he replied, in barely a whisper. Draco let the bullies go, and they hit the ground running. "I'll have a word with you both later." As they scampered off, he sighed. "You know I can't keep doing this every time you're in the mood to be intimidating. It was fine when you wanted to have a smoke or something, but I do not want other people involved in this!"

Blaise shrugged. "It was just how it was. They were beating up on Terry Boot, and social responsibility called."

"Now I KNOW you like him. Since when have you cared about anyone other than yourself? Social responsibility my ass," Draco snorted.

"It's hard work being a prick you know," Blaise replied. Draco smirked. "Well at least we know you're not exactly Mrs. Robinson either. Come on. Tell your troubles to Father Draco."

"Blasphemy too? Who knows what circle of hell you'll get yourself thrown into," Blaise said, walking further past. Draco caught up with him anyway. "This is the closest I'll ever get to acknowledging it, but you do know that I owe you right?"

"That little thing with Potter? Really Draco, that was just so I'd have something to entertain myself by. I'm fine with the way things are," he shrugged.

"Or you could just be too proud to ask for help,"

"I told you, I'm fine!"

"Until you start wanking into a sock…"

"Hey!"

"So admit it then. You like Terry Boot but you can't approach him yourself!"

"They usually come to me Draco. Is it any wonder that I'm clueless?"

Draco leaned back against the wall. "Now that we're past the first step, we can figure out what to do."

"I suppose. It's only between us though, or else I'll declare shenanigans and you'll have to spend what few nights you do in the Slytherin dormitories with one eye open."

"Yeah, yeah. What happens then?"

Snape poked his head out of the Potions classroom. "Don't make me come out and make an example out of you two. Get in now!" he snapped.

They both enter, obviously unused to Snape's temper being directed at them. "Reckon he'd fancy a three way, just to take the edge off?" Draco teased.

"Let's figure Boot out first; then we'll discuss Snape," Blaise replied.

* * *

Note passing ensued:

_Tell me. _

_Nothing ! Fanciable obsession attraction?_

_You just want to tap that. _

_Already done. _

_So what else could you possibly want from him?_

_His art box _

_You're in love, bitch. _

_I am, aren't I? _


End file.
